


House of Cards

by bellatemple



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Gen, Mark of Cain, Post-Season/Series Finale, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:58:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatemple/pseuds/bellatemple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley is no Frank Underwood. </p>
<p>(A riff off the last moments of the season finale.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of Cards

So. Here's the thing: 

The Mark barely has to try on Dean. 

For one thing, it's had practise. This isn't amatuer hour, here. Sure, it's only had one before, good old Cain, the poster boy for all human evil for millennia, but when it got started, Hell was barely a storefront at the afterlife mini-mall. The only demons it had to draw on were those who would be angels -- potent, sure, but nowhere near the sheer raw power of a human soul. They still thought it was terribly clever to dress up in snakeskin and peddle apples. 

(Not that we're saying that wasn't clever. It was highly successful, at the time, accomplishing just what the devil -- or maybe God? it really is difficult to tell, even after the fact -- wanted. But it wasn't really what modern demons of substance would call stylish.) 

Remember, now, Cain was only the third human in all of existence. None of them had even managed to die before he plunged that donkey's jaw into his brother, and that was to guarantee that Abel went to Heaven. The Mark got to work the moment it touched Cain's skin, but it was starting from scratch. It had to make it all up as it went along. 

These days, Hell is a multi-national corporation, with lobbyists in every government on the planet. (Hell had lobbyists before humanity even invented government. They're _very_ good at what they do.) It has billions of human souls, transforming and transformed, in place to give the Mark an extra boost. There's not a human alive who can stand up to that, not even a Winchester. 

Here's another thing, though: 

It doesn't have to use a single one of them. 

Dean's already half-demon before the Mark ever touches his skin. He's done forty years in the pit, ten of them actively blackened. Castiel's grace wiped most of the black away when he raised him, but damnation's like a mold, like a cancer, and that speck left behind came back stronger, more resistant. Dean's always known he was a killer, even before his apprenticeship at Hell's premiere rack. He wasn't irredeemable, of course, he had his bright, bright, eye-searingly good qualities about him as well. But bright light creates the darkest shadows. 

So Dean going demon? That's easy. The Mark never breaks a sweat. It barely uses a shred of its power, which it means it has plenty to share when Dean finally wakes with eyes of volcanic glass. 

And, well, here's the really important thing: 

Crowley thinks he can control him. 

That's why he orchestrated this whole drama. Oh, sure, ridding himself of Abaddon's threatening presence was a major factor, but primarily, Crowley spent his year feeling _weak_. He's been human before, and he didn't much care for it all then, either. He wants his crown back, and a good little ravenous killer second-in-command -- made out of a _Winchester_ , of all things! -- that can only cement him in place. His reign will be long, glorious, and above all, _efficient_. None of the sloppiness of angels and in-fighting getting in the way. The business of Hell is power, and power means souls. Buying, selling, trading, manufacturing if he can work the process out. (You should see his plans for R &D.) The political theater of it all doesn't suit him; he needs an undeniable show of force to keep Hell properly in line.

And, hey, Dean's halfway there, already. All it takes is a little nudge. 

Except. 

Except that Dean spent a year as the only human in Purgatory -- and survived. Dean has faced off against would-be Gods and ancient, ravenous beasts -- and won. Dean has already taken on Heaven, has already been through Hell. He was trained in the art of torture by the great masters of the Pit, and he has conquered the Mother of All Monsters. He has slaughtered a Knight of Hell and the blood of two of the most powerful archangels runs through his veins. (Just how, after all, did you think vessels were created?) He was trained by the only human to withstand the full force of the Pit without breaking, and most importanly? 

He's a big brother. 

Dean is no one's second-in-command. 

Crowley barely has time to flinch. He greets the demon Dean's become with a wicked grin and open arms and receives the First Blade in his chest for his efforts. Deep in the Men of Letters bunker, Sam feels the walls tremble with the force of it -- and then Dean is gone. 

He heads down. He knows the way. 

There's not a demon in Hell who doesn't know the name and face of Dean Winchester. A few in his path sneer and try to bar his way; they're swatted like flies. More of them cower and hiss; he stomps them flat and watches them splatter. A couple of them genuflect; one he pins to the wall, the other he takes by the throat, lifting it above his head even as he continues forward. It gasps directions, and he slings them down into the pit -- catch and release. 

The cage isn't hard to find. It's constructed that way, an eternal example to all those who would defy -- or is that follow? -- the will of the Lord. Visibility is as key in its function as its impenetrability. 

The First Blade slices through it like a scalpel, and Dean reaches in, grabs hold of the first solid thing his fingers touch, and drags it back out. 

Adam is charred, his eyes rolled up to pure, Lilith white. He's a twisted, nasty thing that hisses and bites. Dean presses the First Blade against his throat, teeth first, until Adam stills, shivering. Then he leads him back, through the now empty passages. (The demons he hasn't killed have learned to keep quiet, stay hidden. They're quick studies, demons, though they'll forget the lesson soon enough. Dean doesn't mind. He has no real preference for what he kills, these days.)

They don't stop walking until they've reached the bunker. 

_I have kingdoms for you, Sammy,_ Dean says. _Heaven and Hell are yours for the taking._

_Dean,_ Sam answers. _Oh god._ He steps forward, hand out, and Adam snaps at him, making him flinch. 

_Come on, man,_ says Dean. _You're a big brother, too, you know. Grow some fucking balls already._

Sam stares from Dean to Adam, then back again. _Dean,_ he says, and it sounds like a benediction. A plea. 

Dean smiles, dark eyes stark against his papery skin. The mark on his arm flickers like fire, anticipating Sam's touch. It was always meant for brothers. 

_We've got work to do._


End file.
